


glory of the snow

by ShowMeAHero



Series: perennial lenten roses [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Holidays, Humor, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Romance, Winter, Winter At Kaer Morhen, Winter Solstice, acts of service
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: Geralt leads across the bridge into the city and through the tight streets, enjoying the feeling of familiarity. It’s been over a decade of winters, now, that Jaskier has been accompanying him to Kaer Morhen. The routine of returning to Oxenfurt before winter sets in, of finding Jaskier at the Academy and accompanying him on the route up to Kaer Morhen, it’s pleasant.In previous years, they’ve been apart longer. Geralt has come to Oxenfurt to pick Jaskier up after a season spent at the school, entire classes and semesters gone that Jaskier lived while Geralt roamed the Continent. In recent years, they’ve spent less and less time apart. A few weeks, here and there, maybe.Never long. Jaskier doesn’t let it be that long and, to be honest, neither does Geralt.or: Every year, Geralt picks Jaskier up from Oxenfurt and takes him to Kaer Morhen for the winter. This year, Geralt doesn't intend for them to ever part again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: perennial lenten roses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043052
Comments: 18
Kudos: 125





	glory of the snow

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, I've been playing The Witcher 3 and just reading a truly ungodly amount of fic and I'm really just deep in the hyperfixation on this one and SO, **here we are, with my new ongoing fic for the holiday season!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up that, while the first chapter is not explicit, I've rated this fic as explicit because it will later earn this rating!

The harvest is ending and autumn is on its way out with it when Geralt approaches the Western Gate into Oxenfurt.

Already, the leaves have withered brown and fallen from the trees, curled up under a layer of frost from the night before. The sun has only just come up, dawn still lingering around the edges of the city as it sleepily wakes up. Winter is close, everyone can feel it; the merchants are already setting out the last and best of their stock in their final attempts to stock up on coin for the season.

Geralt leads across the bridge into the city and through the tight streets, enjoying the feeling of familiarity. It’s been over a decade of winters, now, that Jaskier has been accompanying him to Kaer Morhen. The routine of returning to Oxenfurt before winter sets in, of finding Jaskier at the Academy and accompanying him on the route up to Kaer Morhen, it’s pleasant.

He misses Jaskier, though they’ve only been apart for a few weeks. They’d parted ways in Hierarch Square when Geralt’s contract led him in the opposite direction of the month-long poetry competition Jaskier had been aiming towards. Jaskier had been regretful, when Geralt left to take care of a specter supposedly haunting the Seven Cats Inn right outside Novigrad. At the time, Jaskier had promised to win the competition for him and take on lectures in the meantime, while he waited for Geralt to make his way back up to him.

In previous years, they’ve been apart longer. Geralt has come to Oxenfurt to pick Jaskier up after a season spent at the school, entire classes and semesters gone that Jaskier lived while Geralt roamed the Continent. In recent years, they’ve spent less and less time apart. A few weeks, here and there, maybe.

Never long. Jaskier doesn’t let it be that long and, to be honest, neither does Geralt.

Geralt loops up and around through the city before heading to the Academy. He’s been in the woods almost exclusively since they parted ways, and he knows he won’t get to a proper barber again until spring. Jaskier cuts his hair for him when they’re together, but he’s just maintaining the style barbers give him, when he’s not overgrown.

“Ah, Geralt of Rivia!” the barber exclaims when Geralt shoulders the door open. “Is it that time of year already? Come, sit!”

Jaskier would remember this man’s name, but then, Jaskier is here far more often than Geralt, and doesn’t have over a hundred years’ worth of names stored in his brain.

“You’ve missed the end of the competition, sorry to say,” the barber tells Geralt, helping him out of his armor. He pulls the last of his clothes off the top of his body, lets the barber tug him to the basin in the corner to scrub him down and wet his hair. “Dandelion put on quite a show, as always. They oughta’ve a separate category for him next autumn, since he wins every year anyways.” The barber knocks him lightly on the side of the head, laughing when Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “Hard not to, with such singularly unique subject matter.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. He’s not surprised Jaskier’s won again — he’s won the last few years, enough that Geralt’s lost track of how many, exactly — but he’d been hoping to hear it from Jaskier himself.

“Anyways, he’s been putting on those guest lectures he likes to do,” the barber continues. Geralt’s not sure when he asked for an update on what Jaskier’s been up to, but he welcomes it all the same. “They come and put on their class performances now and then all over town, and it always turns into a show. Everything does with him, but then, well, you know that.”

“Mm-hmm,” Geralt agrees.

“Same as last year?” the barber asks, grabbing his razor, and Geralt nods. “Some things never change, Witcher. Glad you’re back.”

“Glad to be back,” Geralt says. He’s similarly glad to find he means it.

The barber trims his beard enough to make him presentable in polite society, shaves the sides and the back of his head down to white fuzz. He trims what’s left of his hair, thins it out, pulls it back for Geralt and reties the band for his ponytail before clapping him on his bare back.

“Up you get,” the barber tells him. “Tell Dandelion we’ll miss him this winter.”

“Sure thing,” Geralt agrees as he redresses, even though Jaskier hasn’t spent a winter here since his brief stint as a full-time professor, decades ago.

“See you next year,” the barber says, and sends Geralt on his way.

Outside, Geralt takes Roach’s reins from the post and detours again. There’s a couple of merchants a ways up that he remembers from the year before that he wants to visit. He’s already gotten Jaskier his solstice gift months ago, courtesy of Percival Schuttenbach, who swore not to say anything to Jaskier about it until the following spring.

The wine merchant remains in the same place she was last year. Geralt ducks into her small shop, lets her guide him to her cellar. He chooses a couple on his own, asks her for recommendations.

She hums to herself, then asks, “Are you bringing wine to Professor Pankratz?”

Geralt hesitates, taken aback. She looks up to him, expectant, though Geralt doesn’t know that he’s actually introduced himself to her before.

“Are you?” she prompts, brow furrowing, confused by him.

“Yes,” Geralt says. She must know Jaskier, must be one of his students, and Jaskier may have mentioned he was coming.

“He’s enjoyed Metinna rosé this season,” she says, “so I can give you a bottle of that, and…” She looks over her stock, then pulls a jug of cognac free from her stores. “Do you want a basket?”

“My horse is outside,” Geralt tells her. He gives her coin and she takes the bottles outside with him, helps him pack them into Roach’s saddlebags.

“Is it nearly winter already?” someone calls from across the street. Geralt looks up, sees a silk merchant he’s played Gwent with once or twice hovering near his stand.

“‘Fraid so,” the wine merchant calls back. “The White Wolf’s come to take Professor Pankratz away again.”

“You’ve just missed the harvest festival, White Wolf,” the silk merchant shouts to Geralt. “Dandelion premiered a new song about you. I haven’t stopped hearing it in two weeks.”

Geralt didn’t smile, not in front of these people, but his insides blossomed with heat all the same. “Has he?”

“Oh, he’s always on about you,” the wine merchant says. “You must know.”

“I think I saw Dandelion heading off to the Sleeping Queen,” the silk merchant says. “Probably grabbing breakfast. You can catch him if you’re quick.”

“Thank you,” Geralt tells them, and sets off with Roach.

It’s not that he doesn’t hear about Jaskier from other people often. He does; people know the White Wolf well, but they know the bard who helped make him famous, too. Well— he was already famous. The bard who helped his reputation, rather.

He’s just never realized that people think of Jaskier when they think of him. It’s a pleasant feeling, and a new one, and he enjoys it as he navigates the crowded, sweet-smelling streets of Oxenfurt as the sun rises higher in the sky. Oxenfurt Academy looms high to Geralt’s right, but Jaskier isn’t in the courtyard. Geralt hasn’t heard of the Sleeping Queen before, assumes it’s new, and is able to get directions off a hungover student returning blearily to the Academy. 

There are a few bards already out in the streets, dotted between market stalls and studios and printers, all playing a similar tune. Geralt lingers to listen, for a moment. A market stall grabs him; he buys sweet-baked sunflower seeds and pumpkin pastries, packs them into Roach’s saddlebags, too.

Just down the way is the Sleeping Queen, so Geralt sets back on his route. The stable attached to the tavern is warm and half-empty. Roach seems content enough with it, and so Geralt stables her, just for a minute, while he ducks inside.

The instant Geralt opens the door, someone whistles and shouts, “Oi, Professor, it’s the Witcher!”

Geralt finds Jaskier easily, that way, because everybody’s either looking at the bard or looking at him. Jaskier’s up at the front of the tavern, leaning against a low stage for performers, elbow resting on the thing. He’d apparently been talking to the singer up there before Geralt had come in. Now, it’s clear, he’s been pulled from his conversation and hopelessly distracted, not that it matters. Jaskier looks absolutely delighted to see him, interruption or no. It makes Geralt’s blooming heat become a steady warmth, all the way through his body; it relaxes him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls across the tavern. He picks his way through the crowd, hops over a couple of stools that get in his way. He’s half-dressed, crimson doublet open, the shirt underneath unstrung and tugged apart. He slips neatly under Geralt’s hands, lifting up to kiss his cheek.

“Several people told me I could find you here,” Geralt tells him. Jaskier laughs.

“I made sure everyone knew my routine so you’d be able to find me easily once you finally showed up,” Jaskier explains. He takes Geralt by the hand and leads him back outside, exclaiming excitedly when he finds Roach in the stable. “Oh, I’ve missed you  _ so _ much.”

“Me or Roach?” Geralt asks. Jaskier rolls his eyes at him and backs Geralt into the corner of the stable, half-hidden behind Roach, away from the eyes of Oxenfurt, if only for a moment.

“Both of you,” Jaskier assures him. He plants his hands on Geralt’s chest; even through his clothes, Geralt can feel the warmth of his palms, heating his skin underneath. His palms slip up, sliding to Geralt’s throat, higher, to frame his face, to thread in his hair.

This close, Geralt can relax into Jaskier. He pushes their foreheads together and just breathes him in, smells his usual scent of honey and lemon and wildflowers. There’s smoke, too, and ale, and something sweet. Geralt traces his hand up to Jaskier’s sharp jaw, cups it in his hand to tilt his face up and kiss him slowly. Jaskier responds in kind, leaning up into him, deepening the kiss until Geralt parts his lips. Geralt’s the one who licks into Jaskier’s mouth first, relishing in the way Jaskier’s hands are shaking when they smooth back down to Geralt’s shoulders again to separate them. From the crown of his head down the back of his throat, the length of his spine, Geralt feels so utterly warmed, despite the cold air around them as winter seeps in.

“Come to my rooms,” Jaskier suggests. “We’ll gather my things and strike out as soon as you’d like. Would you care for a bath before you go? Of course you would, look at you, who do I think I’m talking to?”

Staying close to Jaskier’s side, Geralt leads Roach through the streets back to Oxenfurt Academy. Roach recognizes Oxenfurt as much as she recognizes anywhere, being only a few years old, but she’s all too happy to accept offerings from students, treats from children. For a warhorse, Geralt thinks, Roach enjoys the familiar comforts of this city a bit too much. The same thing, though, could be said about him.

“Sadly,” Jaskier is telling him, “the Lost Cross has closed, but lovely Myrna who used to run the kitchens over there is at the Dairymaid now, so that’s alright. Oh, and, as you can see, a vandal has seen fit to show our beautiful Daisy here what’s what.”

“Daisy?” Geralt asks, as Jaskier stops them beside a fountain. A statue of a woman stands atop it; a crude set of tits have been painted over the iron that composes her.

“I’ve just taken to calling her that,” Jaskier says. “Doesn’t she look like a Daisy?”

“Mm,” Geralt agrees. Jaskier tangles their fingers together, looking over the fountain, before Jaskier tugs at his hand to move them along. Roach finds her home stabled with the other horses at Oxenfurt Academy, more than happy to take apple slices from the stable boys’ hands as Geralt leaves her in their — he’s hoping — capable hands. Her saddlebags, however, come with him.

“Nothing much has changed here, I’m afraid,” Jaskier tells Geralt, guiding him up the stairs to the staff’s rooms.

“Your hair is longer,” Geralt comments.

Jaskier’s free hand slips through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. He stops Jaskier in the hall, crowds him into the wall and tucks the hair behind his ear. “You look nice.”

“So do you,” Jaskier tells him. He rubs his fingertips over the fuzzy side of Geralt’s head, smiling at the sensation before slipping his hand into Geralt’s hair again, scratching at his scalp. Geralt drops his head to nuzzle into Jaskier’s throat, inhaling deeply and settling there. “Miss me?”

Geralt’s buried too deeply in Jaskier to respond, but he hums anyways, more a rumble in his chest, muffled by Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier strokes a stray lock of hair back behind Geralt’s ear, lets his fingers run over his shoulder and down his back. He whispers, close to the shell of Geralt’s ear, “I missed you, too.”

“Mm,” Geralt offers again. Jaskier shifts, and so Geralt withdraws, reading his body language well enough to know to let go.

“We’re  _ so  _ close to my room, darling, come on,” Jaskier tells him. He pulls on his hand again, reminding him,  _ “You’re  _ the one who’ll be upset if a student finds us in the hallway like this, come along. What are you bringing up with you? You know I have all the soaps you’d need, right? I drew you a bath this morning, all you’ll need to do is heat it up.”

“Just a couple of things I picked up,” Geralt tells him. “To share.”

Jaskier beams at him over his shoulder, leading him up to the second-to-last door on the right. He’s left the place unlocked, against Geralt’s better judgment, and so just pushes his way in, tugging Geralt in after him. The rooms are as familiar as the city, mostly unchanged as Jaskier comes in and out of them. He shares them with a couple other lecturers, Geralt knows, former professors and fellow bards who are, like Jaskier, similarly incapable of staying in one place for very long.

“Here we are,” Jaskier says. He shucks his doublet and tosses it across his bed, striding straight for the tub of water by the hearth.

Geralt closes Jaskier’s door behind them, taking the time to lock it before setting his bags down beside it. He intends to unpack the few things he’s brought, wine included, but he’s halted, for a moment, watching Jaskier by the hearth, lighting the fire. Still, after years, he can be struck by him, it seems.

“In case you were wondering,” Jaskier says over his shoulder, stoking the fire, adding logs until its crackling fills the room, “I won the competition.”

“Did you?” Geralt asks. “How many years in a row is that, now?”

“Nine,” Jaskier informs him. He pulls his shirt off over his head and leaves himself bare-chested as he dips his fingertips into the tub, grimacing. “It’ll need a bit of heat, darling. But with the competition, I don’t know if I ought to come back and perform next year, you know. Every time is less of a challenge, and yet, how can I stop before year ten?”

“Maybe they should make you a judge,” Geralt suggests. Jaskier turns to him, playfully aghast.

“How could I ever judge true art?” Jaskier asks.

“You do it all the time,” Geralt points out. “And usually you’re not calling it true art.”

“That’s when it’s  _ not  _ true art,” Jaskier informs him, crossing the small distance between them to start pulling at the laces on Geralt’s pants. The windows are still closed and the curtains still drawn in the room, casting it in darkness as perfect as though it were nighttime, hardly a lick of sunlight peeking through. The roaring fire goes a long way to light the small space in warm oranges and yellows; all of Jaskier’s possessions, few though they are, are dispersed about the room, a variety of instruments propped up against walls hung heavy with rich tapestries. Like Jaskier, the rooms are finely decorated and still completely scattered with chaos.

Geralt uses Igni to light the room’s candles, enjoying the way Jaskier’s eyes stay fixed on him as he does it. It’s only then that he steps out of his clothes, lets Jaskier lead him to the bath and help him step in.

“How did your specter hunt go?” Jaskier asks. “And spare no details, please, dearheart, I have to start composing a new ballad sooner rather than later.”

“I heard you had a popular new song,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s face goes pink before he disappears behind Geralt, snapping open the small trunk beside the wall.

“I’m surprised you’ve heard about it,” Jaskier comments. “Then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be, you hear everything.”

“I haven’t heard the song yet,” Geralt amends. “Just that you wrote it about me.”

“Well, that should come as no surprise,” Jaskier says. His hands stroke through Geralt’s hair, removing the tie holding his ponytail in place. He shakes out his hair, letting it fall forward into Geralt’s eyes. “All my songs are about you. Dunk your head.”

Geralt does as asked. When he resurfaces, Jaskier’s fingertips slide along his wet jaw, pulling up into his hair and slicking it backwards. Geralt hears him uncork a bottle, smells rosewater and lavender soap only the moment before Jaskier starts working it through his hair.

“Tell me about your competition,” Geralt requests, and Jaskier does. He washes Geralt’s hair meticulously and tells him about each of his competitors, talks about the poems he wrote and the songs he composed, tells Geralt all about the final contest and the ballad he’d written about Geralt for the occasion. When Geralt requests that Jaskier sing it to him, Jaskier only hesitates for a moment.

“My hands are wet,” Jaskier points out. “I can’t play the lute and wash your hair at the same time, Geralt, darling, I’m not quite that talented just yet.”

“Just sing it, then,” Geralt suggests. Jaskier’s hands keep combing through his wet hair, washing it strand by strand. In Geralt’s mind, he’s thinking about the last few weeks of horrendous silence, a thought he never imagined he’d have. Before Jaskier, silence was blessed; now, all it feels is empty.

As Geralt expected, Jaskier acquiesces. Instantly recognizable, it’s the same music the bards were playing in the streets between the stalls. The ballad isn’t slow, but it isn’t a bawdy tavern song, either. Geralt actually remembers Jaskier working out sections of the tune on the road before they’d parted ways in Hierarch Square. In the words, Jaskier sings of Geralt hunting — and ultimately rescuing — a silver basilisk. Of course, much of it is embellished, and Geralt comes out sounding like a hero, but— more than that. Geralt in the song sounds like a romance figure, tender and handsome and loving, obvious even in music.

When Jaskier stops singing, the room is silent, save the crackling of candles and hearth.

“Do you like it?” Jaskier asks. He clears his throat, when it catches, and his hands leave Geralt’s hair to get himself water.

“It’s excellent,” Geralt says. Even objectively, that’s true; he’d say that even if he’d heard the song from a stranger, about some other warrior, living some other life. It’s a good song regardless.

But the song  _ is  _ about him, and, occasionally, he does forget that. Never fully, or logically, because he knows it, but he  _ forgets,  _ that Jaskier sings about  _ him.  _ He remembers, when it’s Jaskier’s voice singing to him, alone, about the experiences they’ve shared together. It’s easier, then, to remember that all of the famous Dandelion ballads start out as thoughts in Jaskier’s head, and Geralt thinks he knows Jaskier’s head quite well.

“But do you  _ like  _ it?” Jaskier repeats. He combs his fingers through Geralt’s wet hair again, working out the catches and snarls, but Geralt can feel the tension in him. Still waiting for him.

“I do,” Geralt tells him. “I love it.” He turns his head, tips it back and his chin up until he can see Jaskier behind him, albeit upside-down. “I love you, Jaskier. You’re very talented. I feel… grateful. When you sing songs about me.”

“Grateful,” Jaskier echoes, face pink again, flushed with pleasure and humid heat. He smiles. “I feel grateful, too, you know.”

“I feel loved,” Geralt continues, before he can lose his nerve. “Also.”

Jaskier’s smile widens, deepens, and he ducks his head to kiss Geralt on the edge of his cheekbone, at the corner of his mouth, and then right on the lips, slow and sweet.

When they separate, Geralt says, “Will you pull my saddlebags over here?”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, grinning. “Sweet romance.”

“Jackass,” Geralt says. “I brought something for you. Go grab the bags.”

Jaskier kisses Geralt between the eyes before pushing off from his stool beside the bath and crossing the room. Geralt enjoys watching the planes of his back move, watching the muscles pull as he crouches and grabs Geralt’s things. They’re nearly of a height, and could be of a width, if Jaskier built up muscle like Geralt did. As it is, he’s already far stronger than any bard has any right being, much to Geralt’s pleasure.

Depositing the bags beside the bath, within Geralt’s arm’s length, Jaskier asks, “Now what, Your Highness?”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow at Jaskier. He suggests, “Would you like to join me?”

“Oh?” Jaskier smiles again, bright eyes flashing with delight. “Well, darling, that depends on what my gift is, hm?”

Leaning over the edge of the bath, Geralt pulls his saddlebags open, offering the alcohols he picked up to Jaskier’s selection. Jaskier makes a soft, pleased noise, crouching beside the bag and pulling the cognac free.

“Shall we drink it from the jug like heathens?” Jaskier asks, already passing the pitcher over to Geralt in the path. With excited, vibrant energy, Jaskier unties his own pants, tugging them down and stepping out of them with hardly a second thought. Geralt’s eyes skim his naked body, taking him in, all of him — the scars and the freckles and the birthmarks and the blemishes all — before holding out his hand to him.

“Thank you, dear,” Jaskier says, slipping his hand into Geralt’s. He keeps him steady as Jaskier climbs into the bath, back pressed to the side opposite Geralt, carefully arranging his legs until they’re tangled comfortably with Geralt’s between them. Geralt uncorks the jug and turns over the cognac.

Jaskier takes a long pull from the pitcher, then sighs, slumping down in the water slightly. Geralt pulls the little bag of sweet-baked sunflower seeds out and offers them to Jaskier, earning himself a kiss on the back of his hand as Jaskier accepts, turning the cognac back over in turn. When Geralt drinks from it, it burns warm and pleasant down his throat and in his belly, barely anything in the face of his tolerance. Still, it’s pleasant, and the flush on Jaskier’s face is even moreso.

“Would that life could always be like this,” Jaskier comments, voice soft as he trails his fingertips across the surface of the water. Geralt passes the cognac back to them, their fingers brushing and lingering for a long moment, too long to be anything but purposeful. Jaskier smiles at him. “Luxuriating inside in baths all day, drinking while the sun’s up, doing nothing but telling the love of my life exactly how much I treasure him.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand in his, kisses the center of his palm.

“That’s not a life for a Witcher,” Geralt reminds him, as badly as he wants it. This is a nice day to have now and then, but not something someone like him could keep. Jaskier, though— Jaskier deserves to live a life like this.

Jaskier sighs, as if Geralt’s just reminded him of an unfortunate ending to a favorite story. “I suppose. You’re not  _ just a Witcher,  _ though, you know. You’re Geralt. You’re your own person.”

“Yes,” Geralt says, “and a Witcher.”

“Be that as it may,” Jaskier allows, “I just think you should allow yourself a little more space to decide what  _ you _ want for yourself. That’s all.”

Geralt’s insides feel warm again. He watches Jaskier take the cognac back, watches his throat and his chest as he drinks, watches his skin flush. Jaskier hands the cognac back, and Geralt sets it on the floor beside the bath, along with the sunflower seeds. The room is headily humid and sweetly spiced with soap as Geralt leans into Jaskier’s space in the water.

“What if I don’t want anything?” Geralt asks. Jaskier rolls his eyes, smiles at him. He cups Geralt’s face in warm-wet hands, squishing his cheeks together a bit.

“I know you  _ want,”  _ Jaskier tells him. He releases his face, strokes his hand down Geralt’s damp chest, fingertips brushing over his slow heart. “I know you’re not a big old unfeeling monster, darling. I know that you want and you need and all that.”

Geralt catches one of Jaskier’s hands, bringing it up to his mouth again. He presses a long, hard kiss to the center of Jaskier’s palm, then a second kiss to the inside of his wrist. Jaskier inhales shakily, exhaling on a shudder like his voice is going to break. Inside, Geralt feels the same.

“What if I don’t want anything but you?” Geralt amends.

“I’ll just have to figure the rest out for you,” Jaskier answers easily. He smiles, his eyes all the brighter blue for being so surrounded by fire and warmth. “Wait, last question, would you like our castle to have a moat or no? In this perfect world I’m designing for you.”

“Up to you,” Geralt says. Jaskier hums, and Geralt changes his mind, says, “No, we should have a moat. Extra layer of defense.”

“Of course,” Jaskier sighs, amused. He leans in close enough to let his forehead press to Geralt’s, the two of them sharing air. When Jaskier tips his head to look up into Geralt’s eyes, from this close, their noses brush together, and Jaskier inhales again, sharper, deeper.

“We have to leave before noon if we want to sleep indoors tonight,” Geralt reminds him. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him. “Snow is coming fast this year, and I took longer than I wanted to getting here.”

“Flatterer,” Jaskier says. He shifts towards Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt gets the hint, opening his arms and spreading his legs so Jaskier can fit himself between them. Jaskier settles back against Geralt’s chest, pulling Geralt’s arms up to drape down over his shoulders. In the warm weight of him, Jaskier relaxes, tilting his head back against Geralt’s shoulder.

“We have to make good time heading to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says. “Have you still got Aster?”

“Yes, she’s stabled in town today,” Jaskier answers. His huge bay mare resembles Roach in looks and personality, though she could be considered, in Geralt’s opinion, significantly meaner than Roach. The only person Aster’s taken any liking to is Jaskier, much to Jaskier’s own delight. “As if I’d ever get rid of that darling beast, please. She’ll love Kaer Morhen.”

“I’m sure,” Geralt agrees. Jaskier tips his head up to make eye contact with him again. “We can leave after we’ve eaten.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jaskier agrees. “Kiss me?”

Geralt obliges, dipping his head to kiss Jaskier slowly, once. When they separate, he says, “What for?”

“Just because I like it,” Jaskier tells him. He settles back against Geralt’s chest again, pulling Geralt’s hands into his, tangling their fingers together over his stomach. Jaskier sighs, then says, “I can’t believe it’s the winter again. How many have we spent together, now? So many, and still, not enough, I want to keep going for a hundred years.” Jaskier turns his head against Geralt’s chest, rubs his thumb over the fine, strong bones in the back of Geralt’s hand. After a long moment, he asks, “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

“Get out, dry off,” Jaskier explains. “Pack up my things and hit the open road, as it were. You’re right, after all, the days are already short and winter is coming fast, even I can feel the snow coming, and if you want to leave before noon, we’d better get a leg up, what do you say?”

Geralt taps the pad of his thumb against Jaskier’s knuckle as he considers his question.

“No,” Geralt answers. Jaskier relaxes a bit, looking up to him again. Geralt turns to kiss him between the eyes. “Let’s just stay here a while longer. It’s morning, still.”

Jaskier smiles, relaxing even further, forehead pushed against Geralt’s damp jaw. Their journey to Kaer Morhen will take a bit of time, though not tremendously long, and then they’d be there, settled in and hunkered down for the winter. Not much longer, and still, Geralt knows the winter will be over far too soon, that he and Jaskier will have to return to the road and their regular lives come spring. The same will be true for Vesemir, for Lambert and Eskel, and has been true every year, and will be true next year, too.

“I’m excited,” Jaskier murmurs. “I love our winters.”

Silently, Geralt agrees, separating one of his hands from Jaskier’s grip to reach up and stroke through his hair, slowly. Noon is still a ways off.

**Author's Note:**

> Angling for this fic to update throughout the holiday season! I just keep getting so many thoughts and concepts for holiday and winter stuff with this pairing, _and_ I had a plot idea, and so I thought, let's combine this shit into one master monster! And lo, here we are!
> 
> You can (and should!) comment to chat with me, or talk with me about this fic on Twitter at [@nicole__mello](https://twitter.com/nicole__mello) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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